Nightingale, Sing Your Lonely Song
by Mlle. Sonia de Varnay
Summary: AU of Susan Kay's Phantom. Sir Erik is the Persian ambassador to the Swedish court where he meets the Princess Christine with interesting outcomes. A journey to Tehran, Russian treachery, and a choice to change all things.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any material related to Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_, Susan Kay's _Phantom_, Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, or any other outside references.

Chapter 1- A Calling

_The Grand Audience Chamber_

The throne room of the _shah-in-shah_ was quiet in the early morning administrative hours. The sunlight from the high windows cast a warm glow on the center of the room, the bejeweled Peacock Throne. Courtiers, advisors, and dignitaries milled about, chatting amongst themselves, as the shah positioned himself with the khanumand the harem. Scribes organized papers, ink bottles, and pens as the agenda for the day was set, and their servants darted about bringing needed materials. A bell was rung in the back of the room to signal the beginning of the audience.

Behind the colorful screen that shielded the harem from the prying eyes of men, the khanum twisted the fabric of her demure black chador slightly between her fingers. She watched as her trusted eunuch, Tazim, made his way to her. He stopped and faced the back of the Peacock Throne, respectfully averting his eyes.

"What request does my mistress have at this moment?" he asked quietly.

The khanum said nothing for a moment, listening to the advisor who opened the audience with a report on the production and sale of rugs. Then, she leaned forward and murmured, "Tazim, please remind my son that _Mustafa_ must have audience pertaining to the issue discussed last night."

Tazim nodded. "Does my mistress mean the magician?"

The khanum smirked at his use of her favorite's nickname among members of the court. "Yes, Tazim," she answered before reclining once more.

"To hear is to obey." The eunuch approached Abdul- Mutaal, the shah's grand vizier. She watched as he relayed the message to the rotund man who nodded slightly. Bowing obsequiously, the vizier murmured her request to the shah. The shah looked faintly annoyed and curtly replied. Tazim listened carefully to the message before returning to the screen.

"The shah requests that your favorite come after he is finished with the English ambassador and the audience be held in his private chambers." The man straightened once more waiting for her response.

The khanum narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "No," she snapped, "The audience will be held in my chambers. I want to hold both snakes at arm's length. Tell the shah that if my requests are ignored, it would be all too easy to request my _Mustafa_ to destroy the plans of his palace."

Tazim nodded and the message was relayed to the shah. The grand vizier gave the answer to the waiting eunuch before he returned to the screen.

"His Exulted Majesty will hold the private audience in your chambers, but requests that you not stoop to threats to attain his presence." The khanum smiled. At least now, her son was showing what little backbone he possessed.

"Very well, Tazim. You may stand easy." The khanum turned to one of the waiting servant girls. "Naaz, fetch me my scribe. I have work to do." The girl nodded before scurrying away.

Reclining comfortably once more, she smiled wickedly. Already an idea was forming in her agile mind. Perhaps this diplomatic venture would rid her of two potential threats. Her favorite was making her uneasy just as the Russians to the north made her advisors uneasy. Her pleasant moment was interrupted by the crier stationed at the door of the audience chamber.

"The daroga of Mazanderan and the Honorable…" The crier paused momentarily. "Sir Erik?"

The khanum's eyes narrowed once more. "Tazim!" she hissed. "Why was I notified that he was to be coming today?"

The eunuch gulped. "Please, _Shabana_, I was not aware… I did not know…"

"Spare me your excuses, you fool." She stared intently at the odd pair that stood before the Peacock Throne.

The daroga was unimposing, a slight man with graying hair and wide brown eyes dressed in traditional Mazanderani clothing. He was loyal but eccentric for he had monogamous since the death of his wife and seemed more concerned with his son than with the affairs of the court. His placid disposition seemed an odd choice for her favorite's violent temper and occasional lapses from sanity. But, then again, the Angel of Death needed temperance.

The khanum's _Mustafa_ stood before the Peacock Throne with a wicked grin on his face. He was a tall man dressed immaculately in a black Western suit, accented only by a colorful Gypsy belt. But the most astonishing feature was the white leather mask that covered the right side of his face. The left side of his face showed a strong profile softened on by long dark hair swept out of the way of his face. His amber eyes stared coolly at the uncomfortable shah and his arms were lazily crossed.

"Greetings, O Exalted One!" Erik bowed a little mocking half bow, his deep voice harsh and sarcastic. "What use do you have with a humble architect?" The room buzzed with the man's impertinence. Surely, the shah would have killed him if he had not been a favorite of the khanum.

"Welcome, Sir Erik," the shah said, raising his jeweled hand in a lazy gesture. "I only summoned you because I wish to hear how my palace is coming along," Here, he paused, his voice becoming irate. "…and why it is taking so long to design."

The man smirked as if the shah's impatience amused him. "This and that, my lord. Ideas have not been flowing and Tehran is not inspirational vista for anyone, let alone an architect."

The shah raised an eyebrow. "Your lack of ideas needs to be cured immediately. Summer is coming on, and you know it will be almost impossible to have the palace completed as I wish."

Erik began to laugh, and his laughter's rich tone filled the room. "Oh my lord! You are so droll." He paused to laugh once again. "If your very command could cure my lack of ideas, I would never need to use my skills at all. In fact, you yourself could the architect, and I just the lowly scribe."

"That may be so," the shah replied calmly. "But, as your patron, I expect work to be completed. Otherwise, you may find yourself unemployed."

Sir Erik's eyes narrowed. He lowered his voice, its tone icy and dangerous. "I would not advise you, my lord, to threaten me. I do not work under threat, and if my behavior is offensive to you, I can always burn the designs."

There was a communal intake of breath from the onlookers. It was well known that the man had been working on these plans for over a year now. Would the shah provoke him or back down now?

The shah reclined slightly in the Peacock Throne, observing the man before him. "Very well, I will not resort to threats. However, can you give me an estimate as to when this project will be completed?"

Sir Erik smiled again. "Mid to late spring, your Excellency. I am just having problems fine-tuning the details which you requested. However, the main wings of the palace are complete."

This answer seemed to please the shah who waved them away lazily. "If that is all, you are dismissed. And you also Daroga," Sir Erik bowed again before leaving the room. The daroga followed him patiently, and the door to the audience snapped shut behind them.

The khanum sighed. She wondered why her son delighted in tormenting the man. Did he not see that his assassin could turn on him at any moment with all of his vengeance? Some day, perhaps, Erik would be the death of the shah.

Naaz hurried to her mistress's side. "My mistress, Masheer awaits outside. Shall I bring him in?" The khanum simply nodded.

The eunuch positioned himself by his mistress, filling his pen with ink. "What message does my mistress wish to relay?"

"Address the note to Sir Erik. Tell him that I request his presence in my chambers one hour after the Maghrib. He must come alone and unarmed." The scribe nodded and scribbled the note onto the waiting paper. "After, you have completed this, make sure he receives it."

The scribe nodded. "To hear is to obey."

The khanum relaxed again. Perhaps, Sir Erik did need a change in vista to inspire him. At the least, the diplomatic venture would rid her of the Angel of Death for several weeks.

_Meanwhile…_

Nadir sighed as he attempted to catch up to the masked man striding before him toward his chambers. "Allah, be merciful Erik! Must you constantly antagonize the shah?"

Erik chuckled softly as he turned a corner, "Of course, daroga. How else is my superior intellect to be entertained?"

"I think you forget that it is my life you play with. I could be killed for your _entertainment_!"

Erik made no reply as he unlocked the doors to his room. He strode toward his desk, ready to return to the work he had been interrupted from by the shah's audience. The room was comfortably furnished, but cluttered with proofs and books in Russian, Persian, and Arabic.

"I doubt you would be killed, Nadir," Erik finally said, his face serious. "After all, am I not the khanum's _Mustafa_? her Angel of Death that keeps her amused?"

Nadir sank into a nearby chair. "But, the khanum is like a cobra. She can dance to your music, but she will strike to kill you. Someday, I think the shah will win over and have you executed."

Erik was not paying attention any longer, preferring to throw his efforts into the proof before him. Nadir reclined comfortably in the chair before pulling out his pipe. After filling it, he took a long drag and sighed contentedly. At least there were some comforts in royal life.

"Must smoke that vile thing in here?" Erik did not even look up from his sketching.

"If you are allowed to worry me to death, I am allowed to smoke to calm my fear of death," Nadir replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke in his friend's general direction.

"But…" Erik was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

Nadir rose, brushing flecks of tobacco off his front, before walking toward the door. A servant of the khanum stood outside holding an official summons. Nadir read the contents briefly, before dismissing the man.

"Erik, you have done well for yourself today. What have you done to merit a summons from the khanum for a private audience?" Nadir asked in mock curiosity.

Erik rolled his eyes. "What does Her Majesty want this time?"

"It is the request of the honorable _Shabana_ for you to attend an audience with herself and the shah after the Maghrib."

"Any restrictions?" Erik asked, his eyebrow raised.

"You are to come alone and unarmed. And, you are expected to be prompt." Erik rose, stretching out his arms. Nadir handed the note to Erik who briefly read it before tossing it onto the mess on his desk.

"Pity I can't bring anyone." Erik smiled, looking at Nadir. "You wouldn't be interested to come and taste the wine to make sure it is poisonous."

Nadir laughed at his friend, shaking his head. "I can't possibly be your taster. Didn't you hear that the shah is going to die tomorrow and leave the throne to me?"

"Of course, Nadir!" Erik slapped his forehead in mock horror. "How could I forget that your one drop of noble blood is so critical to the line of succession?"

But, he sobered, looking worried. "What the khanum wants worries me. I would like to have an ally in the room." He wandered toward the window facing the gardens. "Perhaps, they would not mind if I brought a friend from the Punjab."

"Erik!" Nadir sat up straight in his chair and looked horrified. "Your lasso would not help you in this sense, unless you wished to be strangled with your own rope!"

"That my friend," Erik poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on the table with a wry smile on his face. "is the reason I always keep my hand at the level of my eyes."

Nadir shook his head. Erik would be his own death someday. He just hoped Erik's mad escapades would not kill him in the process. He took another pull of his pipe for the meager comfort the tobacco provided. At least the audience would be after the shah's usual alcohol-soaked dinner; Erik would be less inclined to kill the buffoon if he was not coherent.

"Wine, daroga?" Erik asked, his voice sounding crisp and official once again.

"That would be nice." The daroga of Mazanderan accepted the glass of wine, knowing it would be of high quality. "How you manage to get the best bottles of this, I can never understand." Erik only smiled.

"I'm a magician, daroga," The light from an open window glinted off his white mask. "I can do anything I wish."

_An Hour past the Maghrib, the Quarters of the Khanum_

Erik stood before the two massive Sudanese eunuchs that guarded the door the chambers of the khanum. He knew from their training that they could drop a man a hundred ways without blinking an eye. They, however, eyed him cautiously for a moment before knocking three times on the door.

"Come in!" The khanum's voice rang out in the quiet hallway. One opened the door slightly, and Erik slipped in to the lavish apartment.

The apartment of the khanum was lavishly furnished with elegant furniture and tapestries littering the room. The woman herself was reclining behind a gauzy curtain meant to maintain her modesty. Servant girls darted behind the curtains through doors bearing food, wine, and cakes of opium.

"Well, _Mustafa_," Erik resisted the temptation to strangle the shah who sat lazily on a couch nearby smoking an elegant ivory hookah. "I see you have decided to break your work with my palace to join us."

"Silence, my son," the khanum snapped. "Do not trifle with snide remarks. You only serve to make yourself sound stupid." The shah quieted instantly and glared at Erik who merely smirked.

"Now, _Mustafa_," the khanum straightened herself on the couch, "I have a task for you. It should be no problem for your…._extensive_ skills, however, it does involve some traveling."

"Might I know where I am being sent, _Shabana_?" Erik inquired.

"Sweden. Apparently, Stockholm is delightful in the spring, and King Charles is quite a gracious host."

Erik did not quite believe her innocent tone. "Who is going to be at the court?"

The khanum sounded shocked. "Excuse me?"

Erik rolled his amber eyes in impatience. "Sweden is not a popular destination for social visits the royal family, so the logical conclusion is that you need an assassination."

The khanum laughed her cold laugh. "How clever, _Mustafa_. Yes, I need the Russian ambassador out of my way. The tsar is encroaching on Persian lands, and it displeases me mightily."

"But," the shah interrupted, "why Sweden, mother? We could strike at him in Russia without much problem."

"You forget, Your Highness," Erik replied through gritted teeth, "That your Angel of Death is a marked man in Russia. Have you forgotten the _gift_ you sent that advisor who defected?"

"I am a dangerous man, _Mustafa_," the shah remarked, taking a proffered glass of wine from a scantily clad servant girl.

"You are no more dangerous than a common spider, however frightening your appearance, my lord," Erik said contemptuously.

The shah rose in righteous fury, and Erik briefly wondered if Nadir had been right to warn him of his employer's wrath. Nevertheless, it was highly amusing to bait the man. He gently fingered the rope that was coiled in a pocket of his dress shirt. It was comforting to know that he could kill the man easily.

"Desist, both of you," the khanum interjected distastefully. "I have no time for puerile squabbling. Now, Sir Erik," she said turning to the man, "I want this murder to be as quiet as possible. After blaming the Swedes, the tsar will inevitably turn to you. Make it look accidental."

"That can be arranged. Can I bring along the daroga?" The khanum shifted slightly behind the curtain.

"If it contains you, then yes, that will be acceptable. But, _Mustafa_, a word of warning…if you are caught, expect no help from this court. As the Spartans said, 'With it or on it'"

Erik grinned at the light irony on the khanum's parting words. "Hopefully, my lady, I will return with my Punjab friend. Shields are such heavy things. When do I leave?"

"Two days from now. You are to procure clothing from the western sections of Tehran and pack warmly. You are dismissed." The khanum rose and glided toward a door in the back wall of the suite with her girls following in her wake.

Erik bowed slightly before turning to the shah. "I can't say this has been a pleasure."

Lowering his voice as if his mother could hear him, the shah hissed, "Allah, being merciful, will mostly allow the Russians to kill you. Perhaps then I will be free of your curse."

"Unfortunately for you," Erik replied, his voice becoming icy, "I am never caught. What kind of Angel of Death would I be if I was careless?"

"You are no angel. You're the Devil incarnate, and I am the one who is tried by your antics on earth. Good day, _Mustafa_." The shah turned to leave, but the sound of Erik laughing was enough to halt him.

"The shah is mistaken. I am not the Devil. Oh no…" the masked man inched closer to the man. The look in his amber eyes was enough to make the diminutive ruler shudder. "I am Death. After all," he tapped his mask lightly, "I have her mark."

Before the shah could answer, Erik spun and stalked out of the room. The shah shuddered again before making for the door his mother had exited through. He wanted to be as far away from those terrible eyes as possible. Not even the thought of the Russians exposing him as a killer was a comfort.

_The Chambers of Sir Erik_

Nadir had been sleeping peacefully in the armchair near the large bay window, having eaten a quiet dinner alone. Peace was a fleeting mistress in the chambers of Sir Erik. The man in question stormed into the apartments, having just returned from his audience with the khanum and the shah.

"You had better call Darius, daroga. We have to pack." Nadir stretched, yawning and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"Might I inquire where we are going?" Erik made no answer as he wrenched open a nearby closet, and began to pull out clothing. "I just call Darius then."

"We," Erik's voice sounded muffled as he went farther into his extensive closet, "are going north, daroga."

"North?" This sounded very odd; perhaps Erik had angered the shah, and he was being exiled to a lonely northern province. "To Mazanderan?"

"Further north."

"Russia?"

"Sweden." Erik finally emerged holding a large canvas traveling bag. "Apparently, King Charles is a good host, and a Russian ambassador needs to put out of his misery. You'll need Western style clothing."

"You couldn't have been exiled to somewhere warmer, could you?" Nadir said dryly as he opened the door. Calling a passing servant over, he made his proper inquires after his manservant Darius. He returned to his chair and looked at his friend. His face was impassive, but his eyes betrayed his anger. "I'm guessing the audience did not go well?"

Erik just shook his head in response before stationing himself at his desk again. Finally, he turned to his friend lounging in his comfortable armchair. "Maybe I need a change in scene. A vacation of sorts."

"You will at least extend your life by another six months. I keep expecting you to be poisoned every day." Nadir retrieved his pipe yet again and took a meditative pull. Erik looked calmer at least, but his face still showed a pensive expression.

"A change of scene will not necessarily extend my life daroga. I still have to be the Angel of Death disguised as an ambassador."

Such was the life of the court assassin...

Author's Note(s):

- I would love if someone pointed out any spelling, grammatical, or historical mistakes. I am basing the shah's court off of Susan Kay's _Phantom_ and outside research of the Qajar (Kadjar) dynasty.

-The names in this chapter are either Persian (Farsi) or Arabic:

_Shabana_: Persian, "queen".

_Shah, shah-in-shah_: Persian, "king".

_Khanum_: Persian, "little sultana"

_Mustafa_: Arabic, "favored one"- This was an artistic liberty of my own, and seemed appropriate for the sake of the story

-" To hear is to obey"- I used this saying from C.S. Lewis' novel _The Horse and His Boy_. I do not claim to own this novel or the saying.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any material related to Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_, Susan Kay's _Phantom_, Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, or any other outside references.

Chapter 2- A Nordic Welcome

_One Week Later, Stockholm Palace Gardens _

Far away from the intrigues of the shah's court, King Charles of Sweden was enjoying a rare moment of peace in the garden of Stockholm Palace. The weather had been cooperating lately, and the spring was enjoyable after hours of work with the Riksdag. He sighed and reclined comfortably on the sun-warmed bench.

"Father?" Of course, being the king of Sweden never allowed for more than ten minutes of time alone. He turned to find his solemn eight year old daughter Louisa standing behind him.

"Oh, hello, my dear. I was just enjoying this lovely morning." He stood, stretched, and offered his arm to his daughter.

"Master Anderson was looking for you. I told him I would fetch you. Papa," She looked up at her father, fingering the material of her day dress. "Do you like my new dress?"

As they strode across the lawn back toward the palace, her father looked down at the dress in question." It's very nice. But tell me why Master Anderson wants me."

Louisa pouted slightly. "It's always about that. He said that some ambassador is coming and wants you to see him before the ambassador arrives. Now what do you really think of my dress?"

King Charles smiled at her impatience. "My dear, in several years you will be the real belle of the ball. You are growing up so fast. Why I remember…"

Louisa groaned. "No memories! I don't want to hear about my birth or my birthdays or when I said my first words."

Her father laughed. "As you wish, my dear," The pair continued along the gravel path up to the open door. "I guess I have to be the king again. It was nice being no one while it lasted"

"Papa," Louisa giggled. "You are always the king like I'm always the princess."

King Charles nodded as if he had never heard this sage advice. "I guess you are right. It is dreadful to always be king."

"I never thought I would hear the king of Sweden and Norway admit that his job is a difficult one." Father and daughter looked up to see a regal woman glide down the hallway toward them.

"Mama!" Louisa flew into her mother's outstretched arms. "I found Papa. He was hiding in the garden again."

Queen Louise looked at her daughter in feigned shock. "I don't know what I am going to do with him. Always in the garden, or reading books in the library, or playing on the piano..."

"Guilty as charged. Good morning, my dear," The king kissed his wife's cheek before kneeling at Louisa's level. "And since when as my daughter has been telling tales about me, hm? Where did my co-conspirator go?"

"Enough, both of you," Queen Louisa grinned. "Anderson is looking for you, my dear."

The king took his wife's arm, smiling fondly at his wife. Louise scampered ahead while the royal couple followed behind. "I heard from Louisa. Who is coming that is so important?"

"The Russian ambassador is coming within the hour." Queen Louise frowned slightly. "I wonder what the Russians what this time."

Her husband looked as concerned as the rounded a corner and emerged into a sunny corridor adjacent to the audience hall. "Only God knows what the want this time. Last time, they wanted trade privileges and extraterritorial rights. I told them that if they wanted colonies that China was still open. Tsar Alexander apparently had a fit."

His wife giggled at the thought of the large Russian man having a temper tantrum. "Some never learn. But Charles," she paused and looked out on the enormous arched windows, "Why on earth is the shah sending an ambassador to us? I have only ever heard of him sending ambassadors to France and Austria."

Her husband sighed. He knew there would be awkward questions about the sudden appearance of an unknown ambassador. "I wish I knew. The shah sent the official tidings, and I was curious."

"But how on earth are we going to host a man who does not speak a European language? You know…"

The king chuckled at his wife's agitated state. "Peace, Louise. The shah alerted me that the man speaks French. But," he suddenly became serious, "I would be alert in his presence. If the rumors surrounding his official position in the Persian court are true, then he is a dangerous man."

His wife looked at him in shock before glancing down the hallway at Louisa. The girl looked unconcerned with her parents being so far behind her. The king followed her line of sight before continuing. "I want Louisa with her tutor when both men arrive. No need for her to see the introductions."

His wife nodded, still looking worried. "I fear that this palace is going to be turned upside down by this. God preserve us!"

The royal couple continued down the hallway. The queen's words had sobered King Charles, and he was becoming more apprehensive about the promised meeting.

"Mama! Papa! Come look!" Louisa called to her parents, oblivious of their sober mood. She was still young enough to overlook the troubled looks her mother shot at her father.

"Do not shout, Louisa dear," her mother gently reprimanded as the little girl ran back, hair streaming behind her.

"I'm sorry, Mama, but I found the glass marble with the blue swirl that I thought I lost," she thrust the precious item upwards for them to look, "Remember? I was playing with…"

"Your Majesty?" A slight, balding man appeared out of a door just ahead of the royal family. "I do not mean to interrupt, particularly with discoveries of the blue swirl marble, "Louisa giggled as he smiled kindly down at her. "But the Russian and Persian ambassadors have arrived."

"Wait one moment, Anderson." He kissed his wife on the cheek before kneeling down beside Louisa, "Louisa, you must do everything Mama says, understand?" He smiled as she nodded.

"Excuse me," Anderson reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a large envelope. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but this just arrived." He handed it to Queen Louisa.

"Thank you, Anderson. Run along, Charles," she said as she slit the letter with her nail.

"Who is it from?" King Charles watched as his wife read the letter. She frowned and then smiled as she read the second page.

"Oh, Charles! Christine is coming home! The letter is about a week old, but she says that she should be arriving this afternoon with the Count and Countess of Mariestad."

Her husband scanned the letter briefly, "I am glad she is coming home. Three years in Paris is too long."

"She is devoted to her art, Charles," Queen Louise smiled sadly at the thought of her husband's late younger brother, "She is her father's daughter, and we could not expect her to pursue the arts with his passion."

He nodded and handed the letter back to his wife. "If she comes in soon, then I would like her to meet the ambassadors. Everyone will be included in this, but Christine has a better grasp on French, which will be helpful."

"Of course. I must go see to Louisa's piano lesson. I will see you soon, love," Queen Louise kissed her husband's cheek before heading down the hallway Louisa had disappeared down.

King Charles looked down the hallway for a quick moment before turning on his heel to enter the main audience hall of the Royal Palace. His advisors were clustered around his throne, exchanging notes and suspicious glances at the far door. Anderson stood at attention beside the throne as his station of manservant to the king required.

"Ah, sire," Anderson bowed smartly before handing the king a sheaf of papers, "Are we ready for this?" He asked as the king positioned himself on his throne, and the room quieted quickly. Every eye was focused on the door, beyond which held the two most important visitors in years.

The king let out a long sigh. "Let the madness begin."

_Meanwhile, in Stockholm_

The streets of the city were crowded with the mid-morning traffic of market day with buyers and sellers jamming the streets, looking for bargains. The official carriages and riders further added to the chaos of midday, especially since it was reported that very important visitors were coming. No one merchant or housewife could agree on who the visitors were, but it was universally known that the king was already planning large events in their honor.

Into this crowded urban scene, a black carriage rolled down the Prästgatan, one of the main thoroughfares of Old Stockholm. It was not a luxurious carriage used by the wealthiest circles, but its subtle, elegant details announced it to be a carriage of the nobility. The crest on the door proclaimed it to be the property of the County of Mariestad. The driver urged the horses on through the crowded streets toward the Royal Palace.

Inside, an older couple slept peacefully despite the jolting progression of the carriage. Their younger companion, however, was viewing the city with uncontained delight from the carriage window. For Princess Christine du Daae had not been in Sweden for three long years. The city seemed foreign and stunning after the working class neighborhoods of Paris, and she wondered if the palace would be as strange to her.

A particularly large jolt woke the Countess of Mariestad who saw the princess looking out the window with a mixture of longing and delight. "It must good to be home, child."

Christine turned to face her traveling companion with a smile of pure joy lighting her blue eyes. "Oh, Countess, you have no idea. Paris is beautiful, especially in spring, but I will never be home anywhere but Stockholm."

The older woman smiled at her inherent love of the country. Her father had been the same way, always traveling huge distances to be in Stockholm in the spring. The countess suddenly felt very old, remembering the Crown Prince.

"Look!" Christine's excited exclamation woke her from her reverie, "The palace! I'm home at last!"

The carriage rumbled toward the large circular drive which dominated the front of the large, grand building. Christine decided that the building was exactly how she had left it, imposing and homely, stern and welcoming. Finally, after some maneuvering by the driver, the carriage came to a jarring stop in front of a smartly outfitted footman.

"What's that?" The old Count had woken from his sleep suddenly. "Oh, are we home then?"

His wife laughed at his shocked, sleepy expression. "Yes, love. I'm glad you decided to oblige us and wake up!" The Count only yawned in reply, being too used to his wife's playful jabs about his frequent naps.

Christine exited, thanking the footman who helped her down, and started up the wide steps. "Countess, Count! Please come with me!"

The older pair hurried up the steps after the enthusiastic woman who was scaling the stairs as fast as her restrictive dress would allow. She still managed to make it to the top in good time with the Count and Countess panting in her wake. The footmen at the door recognized her with a muttered, "Your Highness," before the doors swung open to reveal the entrance of the palace.

Christine gazed around the wide, ornate room with awe. She had forgotten how imposing the hall could be, especially when it was basking in the quiet mid-morning light. The Count and Countess were still on the steps, arguing over some trifle, but Christine barely heard them as she gazed out one of the high windows. Their voices faded as the couple moved towards one of the other doors.

"Christine?" Christine spun around to face the wide staircase which dominated the room. A woman with a pleasant face and a green brocade dress stood at the top of the steps, and Christine immediately recognized her aunt, the Queen Louise.

"Louise!" Christine ran up the stairs several at a time and embraced her aunt warmly. Only when she pulled back did she realize a small girl was clinging to her aunt's skirts.

"Louisa!" The little girl looked at her mother, eyes wide, "Where are your manners? You remember your cousin Christine?" The little girl shook her head, her ringlets bouncing.

"Louisa?" Christine knelt down to her little cousin's level, "I know you don't remember me very well, but your mama told me you love fairy tales. Is that true?"

Louisa nodded shyly, a smile creeping across her face. Christine continued, "I was in a bookshop in Lyons, and I found a little book of French fairy tales which I though you would like." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "And I promise to read you a new story every night. It will be our secret."

Louisa stared up at her cousin. "Can Mama listen with us? Can Gustaf?" Christine laughed softly at her excitement.

"I think Gustaf might be a little young to be listening to fairy tales, Louisa, but your mama is more than welcome to come," Christine glanced up at her aunt who smiled down at her.

"You Majesty, I know you called for me," A large, maternal woman bustled down the hallway, stopping before the queen with a quick curtsey. "Madame Atlan is here…" She broke off and looked closely at Christine for a moment.

"God in heaven! Princess Christine? Come here, child" Mrs. Valerius, who was governess to Louisa, quickly enfolded the princess into a loving embrace for she had been Christine's governess and nurse from the age of five.

"Mama Valerius, it is so good to see you," Christine said. The older woman drew back to examine Christine at length. The girl had not changed greatly, but her fashionable clothing added to her natural beauty of brown curls and clear blue eyes.

"I swear, child, you are becoming the image of your poor mother. Such a beautiful woman you have become!"

Louise smiled at their affectionate reunion. "Mama Valerius, I hate to tear Christine away from you, but she is expected at the audience and we are late as is. Could you take Louisa and begin her lessons for today."

Of course, Your Majesty," With a final squeeze to Christine's hand, she gathered a protesting Louisa and headed toward one of the many palace staircases. Queen Louise breathed out a tired sigh before turning to her niece.

"Christine, it is so good to see you. I am sorry you have to attend an audience immediately, but this cannot be avoided. Both the Persian and Russian ambassadors are here, and Charles wants the family present."

"Isn't it strange for the Persian ambassador to be here?" Christine glanced at her aunt as they walked down the maze of passages toward the central audience chamber. Her aunt nodded as she rounded a corner.

"Very strange, but the man is very powerful in the Middle East and perhaps there will be some gain for Sweden from his presence. The wonderful part is that there will be a series of balls, galas, and banquets to welcome them and to celebrate spring," the queen became more animated as she spoke of the grand events planned.

"I suppose it will be enjoyable to have a mass reunion with the entire royal court," Christine mused, her face contorted in a slightly absurd expression. "Everyone must be simply _dying_ to see my royal self." Louise laughed at her whimsical impressions. Christine was always a performer and had been since she was a little girl.

The pair continued arm in arm until they came to the large hallway which ran along the rear of the main audience chamber. A footman stationed outside the door quickly entered the room and returned with the crier. Queen Louise briefly conferred with the man who went before them into the chamber. Christine smiled as the doors leading into the main audience chambers opened. It was as if she had stepped back into her childhood, running up and down the hall and chasing after her father. She almost expected Mama Valerius to reprimand her for entering the grand room.

The crier inhaled sharply before announcing, "Her Majesty the Queen of Sweden and Norway, Princess of the Netherlands, Queen Louise and Her Royal Highness the Princess Christine, the Duchess of Uppland!"

Louise swept into the room with Christine remaining a respectful two steps behind her. All eyes were on the pair as the approach the throne's dais where King Charles was quietly looking on. Louise curtseyed deeply before moving to the left of the king.

Christine approached the dais slowly, glancing up at her uncle. He was older than she remembered with the stern lines on his face more pronounced, but he was essentially the same. "Your Majesty," she curtseyed, face lowered.

"Rise, child," her uncle was smiling down at her, "Welcome home, Christine. It has been too long."

She nodded before assuming her place behind Louise. She breathed a sigh of contentment as she looked out over the audience hall. The muttering ambassadors, whispering countesses, and swift butlers were oddly familiar, even if she did not recognize some of the faces before her. But a stranger scene was taking place before the throne dais.

Three men stood before King Charles, each more curious than the man beside him. It was obvious that none of the men were Swedish, and even more so that they were uncomfortable with the audience hall being so focused on their every move.

One man stood slightly behind the others, his brown face and green eyes quietly observant of the room. He was dressed in sharp European clothing, but the contrast between his skin, eyes, and face was rather exotic. Christine knew from the way he carried himself that he was a noble of an older family of etiquette. He seemed at home among the courtiers and smiled at the assembled crowd as if they were family.

The next man was European, but his dress proclaimed him to be a Russian. As she warily glanced at him, she decided that he reminded her of a fox with his narrow, pointed face and sly expression. He exuded disdain for his surrounding, and glanced haughtily around the room as if its occupants disgusted him. He twitched nervously occasionally which diminished the look of disdain somewhat, but his cold dark eyes were enough to make Christine shudder.

Then, there was the last man. If the Russian reminded her of a fox, this man was an Artic wolf, lean and dangerous. His height combined with his all-black attire gave him an ominous look, but the most surprising feature was his face. The right side of his face was encased in a gleaming white mask, and the left showed a proud, handsome face framed by a black hair. But it was his deep gold eyes which held her attention. They were exhilarating and beautiful with a hidden spark of danger.

He suddenly caught her gaze and held it for several breathtaking moments. Christine knew she should look away, but there was something captivating about his frank gaze. He smirked slightly, his eyebrow raised, before returning his attention to the king.

Christine exhaled a breath she had been inadvertently holding. She turned to Louise and whispered, "Louise, who is that?"

Her aunt followed her gaze to the masked man. Her eyes widened in silent shock before she turned to her niece, "That must be the Persian ambassador. They say he is quite a fearsome man."

Christine frowned at this. "But, you cannot be serious. Surely, the other is the ambassador?" Before the queen could answer her question, the king addressed the three men before him.

"I am sure that this diplomatic venture will be productive for all. However, I would like to remind you both that Sweden will not stand for violence upon her soil. Keep whatever bloody squabbles you wish to engage in out of my domain. I hope this is clear."

The Russian simply snorted in response. The Persian ambassador however answered in French, "To hear is to obey, Your Majesty." His voice was almost musical in tone, but held a hint of sarcastic amusement at the king's request.

The king raised his eyebrow slightly at the archaic address but nodded graciously. "Very well. Court dismissed."

The courtiers streamed out of the wide doors leading into the residential wings of the building, traveling in their prescribed packs. The butlers and other low-ranking officials waited until the nobility had filtered out before filing out after their respective masters. Finally, the royal couple, Christine, and the three men remained in the large room with an awkward silence prevailing. King Charles stretched slightly before addressing his audience.

"Gentlemen, I would like to formally introduce my wife, Queen Louise, and my niece, the Princess Christine. My daughter, Louisa, is at her lessons, and the Crown Prince was unable to attend the audience due to the health of his son."

The Russian stared at Christine suspiciously for a long moment before speaking in heavily accented Swedish, "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I was not aware that Prince Oscar had an older daughter…"

Christine attempted to correct his mistake over her parentage, but the Persian ambassador answered for her in his deep rich voice, "Correct me if I am wrong, but her Highness is the daughter of the late Crown Prince Gustaf."

Christine nodded in reply. "You are correct, sir," she laughed lightly before continuing, "I was not aware that the Persian court paid such close attention to the affairs of the Swedish royal family."

The ambassador smirked. "Hardly, mademoiselle. You father was incredibly talented as a musician, and I always remember a musician of his caliber." He paused, looking at her closely. "I am sorry for your loss."

Christine was touched by his gruff sincerity. "Thank you, ambassador."

The king and queen exchanged a brief glance. The king cleared his throat, saying, "Since you have now been properly introduced, gentlemen, I believe more formal introductions of yourselves are in order. May I introduce the Ambassador Nikolsky," the Russian bowed curtly, "Sir Erik of Tehran and the Daroga of Mazanderan."

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Queen Louise remarked politely, "though, I must excuse myself and the princess as she as only just arrived."

The king nodded. "Of course. You are dismissed." Both women curtseyed to the ambassadors and the king before exiting by the door they came by. Christine sighed contentedly as she followed Louise into the small parlor. She recognized it as the queen's formal greeting room with its lavish furnishing and fine views of the side gardens. A maid bade her to sit in a comfortable armchair while another poured steaming cups of tea into elegant china cups.

"I am sorry, Christine, that you had to be dragged to that, not ten minutes in your own home," Louise had settled herself in another armchair opposite Christine, "But you must tell how you are."

The two women remained in that comfortable parlor for a long time, gossiping and laughing. Both were oblivious to everything except the tales of Paris, the planning of a garden party, and jokes about each others quirks. The Duchess of Uppland, after many years of wandering, had finally come home.

_Later, at sunset…_

A richly furnished bedroom in the western wing of the palace lay strangely quiet in the late afternoon. Its rich window hangings were closed to the last streams of sunlight except for a single strand of golden sunlight. The desk was lit by a single candle which cast flickering shadows on the darkening room.

Upon a wooden dresser near the western window lay a magnificent mahogany box, topped by a motif of diamond shards. The box was open, its emerald clasp slightly ajar. As the light streamed in through the chink in the curtains, red velvet lining was quietly illuminated by the light. A pattern of silver thread interrupted the plush fabric, forming strange, exotic lettering.

The light shifted and the contents of the box were revealed! A long, silver dagger lay in its luxurious bed, glinting dully in the soft light. The magnificent weapon was topped with single ruby for the pommel stone. Inside this ruby was a delicately craved scorpion with winked and shimmered. It was a terribly beautiful weapon which mocked the peaceful atmosphere and sang to the incoming darkness.

The light faded, afraid of this deadly toy, and the peaceful darkness embraced it.

Author's Note:

The dagger will come in later in the story, so stay tuned!

On a historical note, I have to edit the ages of several historically based characters. King Charles XV was actually born in 1826, and his younger brother Gustaf was born in 1827. Gustaf died in 1852 and did not have any children to my knowledge. The "Crown Prince" mentioned in the story is the third brother Oscar, who later became Oscar II. For the sake of the story, King Charles was born in 1821, Gustaf in 1822, and Oscar in 1824.

I am also self-betaing am trying to catch as many mistakes as possible. I would appreciate if they were pointed out to me!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any material related to Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_, Susan Kay's _Phantom_, Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, or any other outside references.

Chapter 3- Illusions of Happiness

_The Chamber of Sir Erik of Tehran_

Erik woke on the first morning in Stockholm very annoyed. The valet that had come in last night had opened his window to let in fresh air into the room, and the sunlight streamed through right onto the bed. He would have preferred to be woken by the shah's infernal cat, the Glory of the Empire, scratching at his ankles. Nevertheless, he pushed himself up and walked over the massive oak armoire that dominated one wall of his room. He pulled down the silk robe thrown carelessly over one of the elaborate carvings and shrugged it on.

His attention was caught by a mirror that hung on the wall beside the armoire. He looked in warily at his exposed face. Even from here, he could see the white porcelain mask mocking him from the bedside table. The gruesome sight had not changed with age, he mused to himself. His amber eye stood out vividly on the twisted landscape of deathly white flesh and pulsing blue veins. Scars cut across his face at random intervals as a reminder of his life with the gypsy caravans, and raw, red spots marked the areas where the mask had cruelly rubbed away the skin. The skin covering his right cheek had collapsed inwardly, leaving a skeletal hollow. The _piece de résistance_ was his ruined hole of a nose which marred the otherwise perfect left side of his face.

Erik sighed. "Handsome fellow, I am," he remarked bitterly. Through a gap in the robe he had haphazardly tied, he could see the deep scars across his chest. He turned away from the mirror in disgust and stalked over to the bedside table to retrieve the mask. He carefully secured it and glanced at the mirror once more. The image was starkly different, but still frighteningly familiar to him. He remembered his first encounter with a mirror and shuddered. _The monster_…

His painful recollections were interrupted by a sharp tap on the door. Straightening up, he retied the robe around him and checked the ties of the mask. "Come in."

Nadir slipped into the room, fully dressed in his suit. "Good morning. I hope you slept well." He glanced at the desk, already strewn with drafts and musical notations.

Erik smirked at his glance toward the desk. "Really, daroga, could you see me sleeping the entire night like any sane person would? I might as well be an insomniac if I am to be mad."

"You are not quite insane yet, Erik," Nadir remarked, sitting himself down in the comfortable chair near the cold hearth. "Though I shudder to think what will happen when they clean this room. What surprises shall they find?" He glanced up at Erik, who was playing with his Punjab lasso absentmindedly.

"They shall find everything in order as I will be cleaning my room. Too many deep, dark secrets to be discovered by a poor servant girl." Erik sank into the desk chair and began to shuffle the papers and books. The Punjab lasso lay across his lap almost as if it was a pet snake being cradled in his lap.

Nadir raised an eyebrow. He had stopped trying to argue with Erik on such small trifles like this. Last time, it had been over music that he accidentally knocked off a chair.

"Are you going to tell me why you have paid this illuminating visit so early in the morning or will I have to use my insane genius to guess?" Erik continued to shuffle papers around on his desk as he spoke.

"Apparently, you are to have a guide, of sorts," Nadir replied, toying with his empty wooden pipe, "The Count of Nyborg."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Do the Swedes distrust me already? It took the shah two weeks to have me trailed by Sudanese eunuchs and serving girls."

"No, I believe what the king means for him to prevent you from killing the Russian ambassador and vice versa. But, they distrust you," Nadir calmly filled his pipe, ignoring the disgusted look Erik was giving him, "The whispers alone are enough to make me nervous."

"The human race never seems to tire of my unusual appearance, and I doubt they ever will," Erik sighed, turning back to the debris littering his desk. Nadir knew talk of his mask was a depressing and dangerous topic to discuss and began to steer away from it.

"I was wandering the halls upstairs, and I found the library. It has a stunning view of Stockholm from the northern windows," He inhaled deeply, enjoying the tobacco. "There is a wonderful piano up there as well, a Bösendorfer."

Erik turned back again, interested in spite of himself. "I suppose the king of Sweden can have a Bösendorfer simply abandoned in a library. Still, I would like to see it if there is time today."

"The king is not expected to see you until at least ten or eleven this morning," Nadir checked his pocket watch briefly and nodded to himself. "You have at least an hour, possibly an hour and a half."

Erik rose, stretching his arms briefly. "I'll see it now. The library should be deserted this early in the morning. If you see the Count, inform him I am in the library, daroga." He walked over to the armoire, pulling out one of his usual shirts.

"To hear is to obey," Nadir bowed mockingly at the door before grinning at the irritated expression on the other man's face. "I though you might be homesick," he quipped before slipping out of the room.

Erik grimaced. Homesick indeed!

_The Chambers of the Duchess of Uppland _

Christine crumpled the umpteenth piece of stationery with exasperation. She was attempting to write a letter to her ballet mistress in Paris, Madame Giry, but she sounded too formal and stiff with every attempt. Perhaps, it was too soon to be writing to someone she knew was in the middle of a brutal round of rehearsals in her spacious studio. It simply made her miss the schedule of dance, musical composition, and singing that she had been immersed in for three years.

She stopped for a moment, remembering the dance school in Stockholm she had attended with many other noble children when she was small. She smiled as she remembered the warm, wooden floors scuffed with dancers' shoes, and the benches crowded with nannies and anxious governesses. She rose and moved into the clear space in the middle of her room, remembering the basic warm up of long ago. _First, second, third, and extend that spine, Christine_. She could almost hear her old teacher.

She felt a sudden need to escape from her chambers and find the dance studio within the palace. Shrugging on an old grey throw, she let herself out into the quiet hallway and locked her door carefully. She climbed the more private back staircase toward the fourth floor, being careful to avoid the loose stairs which squeaked horribly under her bare feet. Christine almost laughed at her careful tread, remembering her frequent escape attempts when she was younger. Sometimes she was successful, but more often than not, Mama Valerius would catch her sneaking up to the library.

As she passed the third floor stairwell, a strangely familiar sound accosted her. The wonderfully soft notes of _Fur Elise_ were barely audible, but Christine had heard them as if in a dream of the past. It had been one of her favorite sonatas that her father would play for her. Stepping lightly on the green carpeted floor, she made her way to the huge library door which was slightly ajar.

Inside, Sir Erik sat at the beautiful Bösendorfer which her father had always played. He seemed lost in the music, his long fingers gently skimming the keys. Christine had heard the piece many times, but the passion and grace that he played with was remarkable. The music seemed to come from his fingers, pouring into the piano keys and showering the room with their glorious tone. Christine looked at his face once again and contemplated the stark contrast between the cold porcelain of his right and the living warmth of his left.

Suddenly, he turned as if he realized he had a silent audience. The golden shower of notes stopped, and he rose stiffly to face her. "Duchess," he murmured, bowing slightly. He moved towards the opposite door as if to leave by the grand staircase. Christine noticed his poise and grace despite the immaculate dress clothes that he wore.

"Please, don't stop playing on my account." He turned and looked at her with a curious look in his golden eyes. "I haven't heard someone play that piano so well since…" She stopped, suddenly feeling exposed by his frank gaze.

"Since your father died," he finished. She nodded, still not looking him in the eye.

He sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair before seating himself at the piano once more. "Is there a reason you are wandering the corridors alone? I would have thought that the Duchess of Uppland would have duties to attend to."

"I was going upstairs to the little studio, and I heard music," she moved over to the nearest bookshelf, running a finger over the worn leather cover of _Inferno_. Looking away, she gazed at the grand rows of bookshelves and desks with a sad pleasure. "I always came up here when I was small. There are too many memories now." She smiled sadly at him.

"Memory can be a cruel demon, duchess. Believe me when I say that I know." His voice sounded angry and hard now, unlike the usual rich, musical depth that it possessed.

Christine moved to an open space behind the piano, her toes peeking out from the hem of her dress. "Shall you play again, sir?"

"For the convenience of a lady," he murmured. He turned back to the keys and his fingers moved slowly into the first movement of a Mozart sonata. The light notes seemed to comfort her soul, sweeping away the melancholy feelings of loss.

She swept her foot expansively unhindered by the loose folds of her lilac dress. The movements were not planned, but a gentle, improvised dance to warm up her muscles. The music picked up tempo slightly, and she obliged moving into a more structured pattern. As the notes moved along, Christine began to remember performing intricate, nimble dances across the stages of Paris. She had been there a week ago, but now, it seemed like lifetime.

The music stopped, and her reverie ended. She looked up at Sir Erik to find his amber eyes upon her. Again, she felt the thrilling captivation she had felt in audience hall yesterday.

"You dance very well," his voice had returned to its rich tone.

"Thank you," she felt foolish for not being able to think of something to say. She sat in one of the comfortable chairs nearby. "Dance has always been a part of my life, but..." she broke suddenly, not knowing why she felt so open with this strange man, "singing is my passion."

"That is not surprising, considering you father wrote music as well as played it."

Christine grinned. "They called him the Prince Musician. I was always surrounded by music. Dance was a part of it, but I was always singing. My tutors despaired of my ever finishing my compositions."

"Sing something for me," Sir Erik had a look of determination in his eyes, his jaw set in a line. "Or, are you someone who sings, but only to themselves?"

"I-I don't what to say, sir…" Christine felt exposed again, her secret revealed.

"Just sing for me," he uttered the simple phrase again, his voice low and comforting. She had not noticed how _sensual_ his voice could be; she had heard anger and sympathy, but this was a new facet to the man.

The door swung open, interrupting their awkward pause. A slight, older man stood in the door, surveying the pair with a curious look on his face. "Good morning," he said in roughly accented French.

"Good morning, count," Christine rose, curtseying to the man in the doorway. "I did not know the library was such a popular place this fine morning."

"Yes, indeed," he remarked. "I actually am here for the ambassador, princess, but you may accompany us if you wish."

"I was planning on visiting the studio, so I will decline your offer, but thank very much," Christine rose from the chair slowly, stretching her arms. "Thank you for the music, ambassador."

Sir Erik grinned, bowing formally, "A musician at your service, my lady."

Christine slipped by the old man toward the abandoned staircase up to the studio. She gathered her skirts and began her ascent once more, humming a Mozart sonata softly to herself.

_The Royal Library of Stockholm Royal Palace_

An awkward silence hung in the air between the two men as the count continued to lean on the doorposts while Sir Erik fiddled with a button on his black vest. A clock in the corner signaled the change of the hour with nine loud chimes, causing the count to look up sharply. Finally, he cleared his throat and addressed Sir Erik.

"Good morning, sir. I hope you have found you accommodations suitable?" The count had the voice of a drill sergeant which belied his age. His wrinkled face was inscrutable as his black eyes took in the masked man before him.

Erik straightened his back almost unconsciously. "Yes, thank you, sir. I was just admiring the library." He cast a gaze around the room, touching the polished surface of the piano softly.

The count raised a bushy eyebrow at this. "And perhaps the duchess as well?"

Erik frowned at his blunt question. "No, she heard me playing and stopped to listen. I have no intention of sweeping girls off of their feet with my angelic good looks." He tapped his mask with a bitter smile.

"The duchess is no more a girl than the queen is," the count crossed the room smartly, opening the door to the grand staircase as he spoke, "She may not be married, but she has come of age here."

Erik followed the man into the marble corridor outside, his boots clicking smartly on the floor. "I did find it odd that a girl of her age and stature was unmarried."

"The king has his reasons, but he is still waiting for one of his nephews in Denmark to turn eighteen before the duchess is married." Suddenly, the count stopped and looked up and down the corridor. He lowered his voice before continuing, "It's not my place to comment, but the duchess is not happy about the arrangement."

"Of course she isn't. No woman enjoys being used as a chess piece for diplomatic advantage," Erik looked down at the man who cast another surreptitious glance down the hallway.

"You must understand, ambassador, that the duchess has always been outside the royal circles in her own way. He father was an independent man who was more concerned with her musical education than anything else."

Erik nodded. "However, once her father died, there was discussion to try and halt her musical education for a more refined, _womanly_ education with the palace tutors. She was only twelve at the time, but she was furious! She refused to go to her lessons and frequently rode out early in the morning to avoid being caught by her governess. I remember she would hide in the library for hours."

The count paused again before walking down the corridor. "The only reason the princess was allowed to study in Paris was because she promised she would marry whomever the king chose if she was allowed. Many in the Riksdag wanted her to be married to a Prussian or German prince in order to cement an alliance."

"European politics," Erik mused aloud, "I had forgotten. But tell me, Count, where exactly are we going?"

"The king has a private study on the first floor," The count began descending a staircase to his left. "He would like to meet with you privately before the Russian is called in."

Erik inwardly groaned. He would have preferred to not see the Russian ambassador if at all possible. The key component of this execution was silence; a silent message sent to the tsar and the enemies within Russia. The less interaction between the pair of them, the less the Swedes would suspect him. But, it couldn't be helped.

The count continued down the stairs at a rapid pace, coming to the first floor quickly. He then led Erik down a series of labyrinthine passages into the center of the palace. He recognized the throne room with its smartly dressed guards who stoically gazed as they passed. Finally, the count slipped into a narrow corridor lined by official portraits of deceased monarchs. Their stern eyes seemed to follow him down the hallway.

The study door was an unassuming door nearly at the end of the corridor. The count knocked smartly three times, waiting for a response. A tired "Come in," was heard in the corridor.

"Wait here for a moment," the count went into the room. Erik could hear a murmured conversation. A third voice joined in briefly, and Erik realized that the Russian ambassador was already in the study. Damn the man!

The count returned, closing the door softly. "I'm afraid you'll have to put up with him, friend. He barged his way, apparently," lowering his voice, he continued, "I don't trust him; I don't like that sly look he gives everybody. It makes me think he knows too much already."

"The feeling is mutual," Erik growled. Raising his hand in farewell, the count walked smartly down the long corridor toward the open areas of the palace. Erik smiled. He liked the old, gruff man with his blunt assertiveness. It would be useful to have an ally within the inner circles of the court.

He pushed open the study door, lowering his head to get into the room. The king had modestly furnished the room with old bookshelves and dusty paintings. A feeling of comfortable disorder reigned with squashed armchairs and an antique desk covered in papers, pens, and books. The king looked up as Erik entered, and he realized that the king looked tired and resigned.

"Good morning," the king said as he put down a slim tome on his desk, "I hope I didn't interrupt anything in the library."

Erik raised an eyebrow. How much had the count told him about meeting the princess in the library? "No, your majesty. I was just reacquainting myself with the pleasure of good European instruments. It has been a long time since I have seen a Bösendorfer."

"I was not aware that you were a musician, sir," the Russian ambassador interrupted in Russian with a smirk on his face.

"For someone known for his silver tongue, you are a terrible liar." Erik remarked coldly in his biting Russian accent. "You of all people would know of my time in your esteemed country in the Nijni-Novgorod musical assemblies."

"Ah, yes. The "Angel of Music" you were called. But of course," here, the man grinned as he glanced at the mask, "the crowds would always demand to see your face. 'Let us see your demon's face, Erik!'"

"You majesty," Erik reverted into French once more. He could feel the blinding anger seeping back into his system and heard his voice because deathly chilly. "If your esteemed Russian colleague does not cease his baiting of my temper, I am not going to be responsible for my actions."

"Enough! Both of you will cease this bickering," The king looked angry now, his dark eyes narrowing. "I don't know what this is about, and frankly I do not care to know. But, hear me now. You will maintain diplomatic decorum in my domain or suffer the consequences. Am I perfectly clear?"

The Russian merely waved his hand as if the king was an inconsequent detail. Erik nodded as he seated himself in one of the armchairs opposite the ambassador. The king continued, "It has come to my attention that the Persian court has been requesting a trade agreement between themselves and the tsar. I have been asked to broker this deal, and I would like to know your input on the subject."

The Russian ambassador looked offended. "The tsar has no intention of letting Persian goods into his country without the assurances of exclusive trading privileges in Persia."

"And I suppose the tsar thinks because he is the representative from God Almighty that he has the authority to infringe on the rights of the Persian government?" He still felt angry at the comment made about his face as he said this. The khanum had trained him well in the ways of cutthroat politics. Always focus your genuine anger.

"Perhaps, the Persians would prefer if we invaded and took whatever resources we though were necessary?" The Russian ambassador narrowed his beady little eyes. "That would solve the problem of trade routes, and the tsar does love Persian tobacco."

"Do as you please," Erik felt amused at the other man's anger. It was taking the edge off of his anger to certain extent. "However, I would not be expecting the tsar to live longer than a week. The shah is a terribly jealous man when it comes to tobacco. Perhaps a drop of poison in his tobacco, or ground glass?" He allowed the question to trail ominously.

The Russian roared in anger at this and would have launched himself at his opponent, if the king had not placed himself in between the two men. "Enough! I have seen sufficiently that the pair of you cannot work together. I will meet with you separately, later. Get out of my study, now!"

Both men exited quickly to avoid the wrath of their host. Just as Erik was about to return up the long corridor, Nikcolsky whispered, "I see that the demon's child has come out to play. I wonder how long it will take for him to die of his anger."

Erik whirled around, pinning the shorter man to the wall. The Russian squeaked in terror as the enraged man pulled him to eyelevel, his feet dancing on air. "Believe me when I say that I will kill you! That is my sole purpose here, and as a man driven by stubborn, terrifying anger I will not disappoint!"

The Russian continued to gasp for air, his face turning a magnificent shade of purple. Erik let him go, and he slumped to the floor. He lay still for a moment before coughing and spluttering on the oxygen denied to his lungs. He raised himself on one elbow and glared murderously up at the man who stood towering above him.

Erik smirked at the undignified position of the ambassador. "Good day, sir. The Angel of Music has more important matters to deal with. I do hope that the Swedish hardwood is as comfortable as the Persian rugs." With a mocking bow, he retreated down the corridor.

_The Chambers of Ambassador Nikcolsky _

The Russian ambassador paced around his lavish apartments, still furious at the humiliation from that monster of a Persian. In the superstitious Russian circles, many believed that the man had powers of the occult, could summon demons, and converse with the devil himself. Nikcolsky had not believed a word of this ridiculous nonsense, but he had heard of the power of the demon's voice. Many a trader from Nijni-Novgorod had spoken of him with wonder and awe, and the Russian officials who lived in the region confirmed this. The tsar himself had wanted the man to come to Moscow, but the shah had been able to grab the man first.

Reaching the dresser, he took a drink from the flask of premium Russian vodka that he always carried with him. It made him feel more like a man, and less like the scared boy in the hallway. The alcohol flowed warmly through his bloodstream as he relaxed on the magnificent four-poster bed. He was dozing lightly, enjoying the plush comforts of the bed, when the sound of laughter outside interrupted his sleep.

Swearing profusely, he hauled himself to the window and took another swallow from the flask. Outside in the garden, two women were watching as children played in the midmorning sunshine. He recognized one of the women as the Princess Christine who he had been introduced to yesterday in the audience chamber. The other woman was most likely a governess for the royal children.

Suddenly, he remembered what the Count had said when he entered the king's study. "_The princess was with him the library, your highness_." A devious thought wormed its way into his mind, and he smiled delightedly down at the pair now strolling through the gardens. Perhaps the princess would be a willingly accomplice in this little venture he was planning. She would not be so accepting of Sir Erik after his revelations of the man's character, and every mind had the right price. He would just have figure out what that price was.

_The Royal Gardens of Stockholm Royal Palace _

Christine was strolling in the gardens with Mama Valerius, completely unaware of the sly calculations of the Russian ambassador two floors above. The tutors had let the children out for a midmorning break, and they ran around shrieking and laughing in some intricate childish game. She remembered doing the same games at their age.

"Well, my dear," Mama Valerius interrupted Christine's smiling glance at the playing children. "You must tell me about Paris. It must have been simply beautiful when you left. And the Opera House!"

"It was sweltering hot when I left, and the Opera House was busy with decisions for the upcoming season. The dancers were very upset because their prima ballerina had to trade dressing rooms with one of the male singers," Christine giggled as she remembered the heated feud between the managers and the dancers.

"But, it did not interrupt with the practices. I did not exactly have a glamorous life in Paris. Up at five for first warm-up and morning practices with no break until lunch break and then dancing until four in the evening. After dinner, there was another practice, but I was excused to study at the Conservatoire."

"But surely, they respected your wishes to sing, dear," Mama Valerius questioned. She knew that her little girl was born with talent, and she had hoped that dance had not tempered that talent.

"Oh, of course! I was in music practices until nine thirty to ten at night, but I enjoyed every minute of it. There was that wonderful feeling of independence. I was studying what I wanted and learning the city of music itself."

Christine began to walk back toward the palace, linking arms with her old governess. "But everyone is going to hear me sing. I'm supposed to be performing at the gala next week."

The older woman looked pleased at this announcement. "Good for you, child." The women continued onto the broad avenue that lead back to the palace. "I just hope this good weather will last."

Author's Note:

I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter posted. School is becoming ridiculous. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I'll try not to.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own any references to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's works or any outside references made.

Chapter 4- Prayers of the Lowly

Louisa, the princess of Sweden, was bored. This boredom was from the lack of interest her Swedish history lesson, and she hated being trapped in her schoolroom with Master Nilsson, her tutor. Everyday, it was something new to learn, some dull date or fact to be memorized. Louisa preferred her limited mathematics lessons and complicated sewing instructions to the dull, unending bore of Swedish history. It did not help that she was the only royal child of age for tutoring with her cousin Gustaf being a baby, and the other noble children being too old for Master Nilsson. She sighed, slumping in the wooden chair of her desk.

"Louisa, will you pay attention!" Master Nilsson slapped her desk with his birch rod cane. "This is important for you to learn, even if you are so young. Pay attention!"

The tutor returned to the podium at the head of the empty classroom and resumed his lecture about a bygone battle with gusto. Louisa began to play the game with the clock she always played to pass the time in morning classes. The minutes seemed to slow, the seconds blurring together, as the midmorning break inevitably approached. Finally, after an hour of ignoring her tutor's requests for her to pay attention, the clock chimed ten o'clock.

"You may go for break, Louisa," the old man sighed, shuffling his papers that lay on his desk, "But be back at ten-thirty, sharp. Otherwise, I'll cancel lunch again."

Louisa ran out of the classroom, laughing in delight. She was free for at least thirty minutes, and she could wander without Mama Valerius reprimanding her for entering forbidden rooms. As she wandered down the corridors, courtiers would smile down at the carefree little girl and politely address her. Louisa ignored most of them, except for the Count of Nyborg, who always slipped her a forbidden marzipan sweet with a kind, grandfatherly smile. Today, she decided to go further than she usually went into the more secluded corridors and rooms to play with her extensive marble collection. The little cloth bag of marbles hung down at her waist, secured with a small belt her Uncle Oscar had devised for her.

She went down the corridor she knew was reserved for meeting rooms and office spaces. Inside the rooms, soft whispering voices could be heard with the scratch of pens and the shuffling of papers. One door at the end of the long corridor had its door ajar. Louisa went cautiously, knowing if she was caught, she would most likely be sent to Father Utrecht for a penance of kneeling on the chapel floor for an hour. The open room seemed deserted with the open windows gently moving the heavy velvet curtains in a quiet manner. Sunlight poured across the wooden floor, which Louisa decided would be perfect for her marble game. She busied herself in selecting her favorite marbles and lining them in a row, organizing them in complicated patterns, and deciding which one she liked best.

A sudden noise in the hallway reminded her that she was in a forbidden room. The noises seemed to be getting closer of the open door, and Louisa began to frantically look for a hiding place, gathering her scattered marbles. Spotting the heavy curtains, she scurried behind them to hide, pulling the heavy fabric across her. She waited, expecting courtiers to flood the room at any moment. Her breathing grew slow and measured as it always did when she was hiding; Louisa had become adept at concealing her presence in the court. She pulled herself on the warm window ledge and contented herself to warm her back while she waited and watched through a gap in the curtains.

Two men suddenly entered the room, and Louisa frowned as she did not recognize either of them. The shorter man was speaking in a torrent of an angry-sounding language up at the taller, quieter man. The taller man had brown skin, and was wearing a strange, loose shirt with his pants; the other man was pale and plump with wild eyes that flashed as he talked. After several moments, the dark man spoke in calm, deliberate sounds as if he was choosing his words carefully before her spoke. The other man angrily shook his head and began to raise his voice again. When the taller man placed a hand on his shoulder, he roared in anger and made as if to punch the man with his closed, meaty fist. Forgetting herself, Louisa gasped in horror. The audible sound echoed through the spacious room, and both men looked towards the window where Louisa was now totally visible to their searching eyes. The short, little man said something in garbled Swedish before running headlong out of the room.

The door slammed behind him, leaving Louisa in the room with the other man. He looked at her with his green eyes and said nothing; Louisa felt a nervous feeling begin in her stomach. Would he punish her? Would he send her off to Father Utrecht without a single word of warning? He smiled at her and glanced towards the closed door as if he expected the other man to come back again. Then, the clock began to chime for the half hour, making Louisa remember that she was late. Master Nilsson would have until five in the afternoon for her being late. She began to walk toward the door, feeling the eyes of the strange man still upon her. Suddenly, he spoke in a strange, foreign language unlike the one she had heard him speak in earlier. She spun around to face him. In his outstretched palm lay a beautiful magenta marble that she had obviously dropped in her haste.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking the marble. He smiled once more and looked up at the clock. Louisa remembered her previous haste and began to go towards the door once more. Just before she left the room, she turned and curtsied to the strange man. He simply bowed in response, and she left him in the room quietly.

Once she was free in the hallway, Louisa began to sprint back to the classroom, not minding if she bumped into courtiers or even Mama Valerius. She had to return the classroom and concoct some story about why she was late. Maybe she would say that her mother had dragged her to some court gathering, but if Mama dropped by later the ruse would be revealed. She could tell the truth, but not only would she be punished for wandering in a forbidden area, but she would probably be told off for lying two unknown men arguing in gibberish and wearing strange clothing . She was still thinking of what she would say when she ran ahead on into someone in front of her.

"Louisa! What on earth is up?" The little princess looked up into the kind face of her older cousin Christine. The young woman looked down at her little cousin whose violet dress and auburn hair were askew after her mad dash.

"Oh Christine! It really wasn't my fault, but they were arguing and they saw me, but I did try to be quiet. I really didn't mean to be in the room at all…" Louisa felt herself babbling, panting with exertion.

Christine laid a comforting hand on her cousin's shoulder. "Louisa, slow down! Start from the beginning. Where were you?"

Louisa sighed, straightening her dress before she spoke. "I was taking my midmorning break in one of the conference areas, where I'm not supposed to be. The room was empty, and I just wanted to play with my marbles. Two men came in, and they started arguing. One was very angry, and he looked like he would hit the other man. Then, they saw me, and the angry man ran out of the room. I left soon after."

Christine nodded slowly. "What did these men look like, Louisa?"

"One had brown skin, and the other," the little girl paused, remembering the frightening glance the angry man had given her with his wild eyes, "was dressed funny, but he had light skin.

Christine frowned at this. "The angry man…he didn't have a mask on the right side of his face, did he?" Her cousin looked at her strangely, shaking her head. Christine nodded before smiling.

"I have get back to Master Nilsson," Louisa looked down the hallway, knowing she was in for an hour of penance at the least. Her knees already tingled with the thought of kneeling on the stone chapel floor for an hour. She looked up at her cousin who twisted the riding glove she had been holding; she looked confused and worried about something.

"I'll come with you," Christine extended a hand to Louisa, and they began to head towards the classroom down the carpeted hallway. "I'm sure he will understand why you are late. If not, I'm sure I can convince him of something reasonable."

Louisa grinned. Her cousin was the nicest thing that had happened to her in a long time. It could be lonely being the princess, but at least someone else knew what it was like. Perhaps penance could wait for another day.

_The Royal Stables_

Nadir inhaled in the comforting smell of the garden after a rain storm. A light shower had fallen in the late afternoon, leaving the grounds sprinkled with delicately dazzling water droplets. The horses stopped noisily behind him in the stable where he had escaped for a few moments of privacy, away from the noise and intrigue. His family had raised dozens of fine Arabian horses for the races that the royalty always attended and betted on. The horses in the Swedish stables were mostly carriage horses used for ceremonial purposes, but they were still proud, beautiful animals. He always felt a connection to stables, the horses and their handlers and trainers from his childhood, and this was a comfortable, universal atmosphere.

He turned back to the stable, approaching a chestnut mare slowly. Offering a carrot from one of the feeders, he stroked her long nose as she contently champed on the treat. He smiled at her pleading eyes and offered another before one of the stable boys saw him. The little boys looked at him with curious eyes, but seeing his exotic clothing and dark skin, they maintained a respectable distance. They had undoubtedly warned of strange men in the court.

"You don't fear me, do you friend?" Nadir stroked the long face once more. The mare licked his outstretched hand with a rough pink tongue in response. "I suppose you don't choose your friends on their skin. Just carrots and sugar."

He shook his head at his conversation with a horse. As if she could understand the strange lilting Farsi that he had addressed her in. "I hope you don't go telling everyone I'm mad." The mare whinnied in response.

"Monsieur?" Nadir turned to see Princess Christine watching him. "Could I have a word?"

"Of course," Nadir followed her, grateful that he had remembered his French and she had not overheard his conversation with the mare.

The princess led him into the garden and onto one of the wide boulevards; she continued until they were closer to one of the magnificent alcoves of roves that dotted the broad expanse of green space. She cast a quick glance toward the palace as if she suspected someone was watching them in the garden before turning to face him.

"I don't mean to be this forward, so you must forgive me. I was talking Louisa today, and she saw you arguing with someone in the conference room. Would you care to explain that?"

Nadir sighed. His confrontation with Nikolsky had been an unpleasant way to begin the morning, but he felt worse upon discovering the little girl had been watching. Only after had he discovered that the little girl with the marbles was Louisa, the daughter of the king, and was sure the king was going to hear of it. "That argument, your highness, is part of a larger disagreement between Erik and the ambassador."

"Meaning?" The princess sat on an ornate garden bench, looking up at the man with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Well, Erik and Nikolsky have known each for quite some time, and they…" Nadir trailed off, thinking of how to phrase the murderous feud between the two men which had been raging for the better part of a decade. "…have had their differences. It's a very long story, going back a decade to the time Erik entered Russia…"

_Ten Years Previous, __Nijni-Novgorod_

_The musical assemblies of the region of Nijni-Novgorod ranged from marvelous, magical places to squalid camps of grotesque amusement. __Konstantin Nikolsky was the undisputed ruler of one of the grandest camps in the region, the Palace Caravan. It exhibited great talent, amazing spectacle, and gruesome sights, and was a wealthy establishment of the Russian entertainment business. He enjoyed good vodka, beautiful women, and the occasional trip to Moscow with the most talented of performers for the festivals and fairs; best of all, he was king and he ran his fair with discipline and cruelty if need be. _

_Despite his good life, something in his cards did not bode well. In fact, he met the monster that would drive him from his comfortable existence into the cruel Moscow winter at a game of _eralash_, the Russian card game that passed many a cold winter night in the camp tents. Nikolsky was known as a ruthless player who had amassed thousands of rubles and other monetary trinkets through his good luck with the complicated card game. It was like any other night, and the wealthiest men in the camp were gathered in his huge tent, enjoying the fire pit and good vodka. A serving girl flitted about serving hearty meat and thick slices of good_ blintz_ to the men hunched over their cards. _

_The game was a good one with Yuri, the main acrobat, having a killer hand on every trick. The thrill of a challenge had the banter going back and forth among the competitor__s, and the usually conscious Nikolsky was indulging in the vodka and laughter without a seeming thought to his cards. He sometimes used this guise to lull competitors into a sense of complacency before striking with deadly skill and omnipresent luck. He began to analyze the attack strategies of every man with practiced ease and calculation, and tonight it seemed that Yuri was using his good luck but not his good sense. He began to lose tricks on simple mistakes, and Nikolsky knew how to capitalize on simple mistakes. _

_"Again!" Yuri threw down his cards in disgust. "Good God, Konstantin, have you sold your soul to the devil to play like that? You had one of the worst hands, and you still won the round!" _

_The men laughed at the frustration expressed by the man who had lost a decent amount__ of money on the last round. Nikolsky just smiled his ruthless grin at the flustered man. "My father was the devil, Yuri. Best damn card player I ever knew and the luckiest." _

_"Chip off the old block, eh?" Ivan, the freak manager, remarked as he lit another cigar from the considerable collection littered around the table. The men around the table laughed and nodded in agreement. Nicolsky had inherited the camp from his father, and many of these men had started under the tough man._

_"I make my own bricks, Ivan. I trust my own hands to those of that old man,__ God curse his stingy soul." Nikolsky smiled at the men around the table before lifting his glass in a toast. "To the old devil?" _

_"To Konstantin, senior," Boris raised a glass and drained quickly, licking his lips to catch the last drops of rich vodka from the rim of the glass. "And may his son continue the success with better results. Animals to tend to, gents." He left his remaining cards to be shuffled back in and started towards the tent entrance. _

_"Send__ Sasha in when you see him," Nikolsky called after the retreating figure. The man lifted his massive hand in response; Boris tended the animals for the camp, being a giant of a man. _

_The men returned to their game, calling on Olga for more meat and alcohol. The fare turned lighter as the successive games wore on towards midnight, and little Sasha came with his Gypsy-crafted fiddle to entertain the men. Wild melodies rang through the small space as the little boy endeavored to stay awake through the long games, betting sequences, and cloud of heavy cigar smoke. __The men slapped and pinched him when the music stopped and only laughed at his quiet pleas to be allowed to go to sleep, to rest for the next brutal day. After all, their entertainment was all that mattered to the good of the little boy's future. _

_An ornate clock began to chime midnight during the seventh consecutive round where Nikolsky had won with conviction; the men were betting lower and lower to try and cut their losses. The cards were dealt almost to the beat of the musical notes from the clock. The final round was being dealt by Nikolsky when the flap to the tent flew open on cue with the final chime of the clock. The wild night seemed to invade the small area of the tent with a vengeance, scattering cards and plates on the table as the men struggled to close the door against the wind through an alcoholic haze. Finally, the last ties had been secured, and all the men returned to the table to gather their cards. Nicolsky began to deal the last cards across the table to Yuri._

_"Here Yuri, and better luck…" he raised his eyes to the man sitting across the table from him, and almost cried out in shock. The genial acrobat had been replaced by a man cloaked by a dark hood which covered the part of face not already cloaked in shadow. _

_"Who the hell are you, freak?" Ivan demanded as he drew his ready gun. The weapon had seen more action than any other weapon at the table and seemed to be an extension of the manager's scarred hand. He cocked it and leveled it at the man's head who did not move for a long moment; no one seemed to breathe around the cluttered table._

_Suddenly, he spoke in a deep voice that seemed to rattle the glass on the table and made Nikolsky's blood run cold. "A freak? Have you any respect for God's living creatures, you animal?" The last word was almost spat with a ferocity that made even Ivan waver. _

_The man slowly reached up and pulled back the dark hood from his face, and a universal gasp of horror was heard. The man was young with a proud handsome face, at least on the left side of his face. The right side of his face was hidden beneath a mask covered in strange insignias and designs, giving him a thrilling and dangerous appearance. But, Nikolsky was most unnerved by the eyes, cold and calculating amber orbs that seemed to stare right through him, through his lies and cheating strategy to win at cards. _

_"There are reasons I am called the 'spawn of the devil,'" the man returned to his chair, surveying the shocked expressions around the table. "Of course, you haven't seen my true face as I suspect you girls will probably _die _of shock. I have a business proposition for you." _

_He stared right at Nik__olsky with those terrible eyes, but nonetheless, the man was intrigued. "Such as?" _

"_Let's just say my talents are broad enough for me to earn you enough money to buy your wildest fantasies." He settle__d in the chair and accepted the vodka from a trembling Olga. "Or close enough to your wildest fantasies." _

_The men around the table eyed each other. This naïve fool had no idea what he was purposing to the man who ruled the most talented camp in __Nijni-Novgorod__. "Would you care to elaborate?" Nikolsky asked as he leaned back in his own chair. "Sasha! Play on, you filthy little _tsyganie_." _

_The little boy jumped at the sound of his name and began to play once more with trembling fingers. The strange man looked at the little boy, and a flicker of pity was seen in his amber eyes. However, he quickly returned to the table and his dealt cards with a wicked grin. "My proposition for you is that we will decide in a civilized manner how I shall come into your employ. I suppose you know how to play _eralash_, gentlemen?"_

_His question was met with snorts of derision. Did they know how to play _eralash_? The man continued, examining his cards, saying, "If I win the next trick, then I will come into your employ in any manner you see fit."_

"_And if you lose…" Nikolsky looked him straight in the eyes. "You will do as I wish, and trust me, it will not be pleasant for you." The man raised an eyebrow before nodding. "Do you have a betting piece?"_

_Out of the man's pocket came a glorious gold ring which twinkled in the dim candlelight, and upon crest of the ring were two horses in combat with a bright star flashing above them. "My family seal, which I trust will be enough for you. Shall we then?" _

_Nik__olsky pocketed the ring with a grin, and as he examined his cards, he thought of all the things this strange man could possibly bring; he was evidently well versed in the gypsy traditions from his strange mask and other mysteriously profitable arts. He examined his cards, and realized that he had an almost perfect card combination which could be beaten only by an almost impossible card combination. Ivan looked over his employer's shoulder and smirked at the thought of Nikolsky destroying the man and casting him into a horrid form of slavery._

"_I don't suppose you have any last words before you are made a slave, bound by your own ring, do you?" The man looked up from his own cards, and the stare that he gave was enough to make the pleasant warmth from the alcohol disappear from his bloodstream. _

"_Toying with my temper by even mentioning the word 'slave' is probably the unluckiest thing you will encounter in this game." He turned and stared at the men who shrank away at the look he was fixing at all of them. "I am a slave to no one, including luck. I challenge you to beat that." And with an idle flick of his wrist, he threw his combination on the table. The men leaned over to look at the combination of sevens and gasped at the realization that the man had the unbeatable trump trick; the color drained out of Nikolsky's own face as he threw down his insufficient trick. _

"_I didn't think so." The smile widened slightly, and the effect was manic. "Now, I expect full payment for my services, and the price is rather steep. If you do not deliver this, every one of you will be dead with forty-eight hours, and I will rule the fair. Expect my word to be law. " Nikolsky nodded dumbly as he rose to leave. _

_The man pa__used at the door and turned slowly. "I believe that we were not properly introduced," he bowed exaggeratedly, "I am Erik, and you will mostly likely regret having allowed me to win. Before I leave, a calling card for those that doubt my abilities." _

_Erik placed a tarot card on the table face down and passed it to a white faced Nikolsky who picked up the card in shaking fingers, staring in horror at the grinning skeleton which greeted him on the eight card. He looked up at Erik once more who covered the masked part of his face with a hand. "Gentlemen," he whispered in a sepulchral voice, "Meet the Angel of Death…" In one swift motion, he ripped the mask from his face and threw it on the table. _

_Konstantin Nikolsky stared in absolute horror at the gruesome face before him which resembled the face of Death almost perfectly; his eyes were captured by the missing nose, awful scars, and maddened yellow eyes which shone from __the twisted landscape of flesh. "I don't suppose you could find work for a face like mine? I can sing and dance if you would like." Reaching across the table, Erik pocketed the ring he had used as a betting piece from Nikolsky's breast pocket with practiced ease._

"_This isn't even gold, not to mention a worthless piece of _tsyganie _filth. I bid you good night, gentlemen." Straightening, Erik walked out of the room, leaving the flap open to cover the stunned room with the spray of wind and rain water. Ivan exhaled a shaky breathe and voiced what everyone in the room was thinking._

"_What in God's name did we just do?"_

_Stockholm Royal Palace Garden, Present Day _

Christine blinked as Nadir's voice trailed off suddenly. The sun was higher in the sky, and the dew that had covered the ground was gone, leaving a harsh green glare from the grass. The story had been one of the most compelling and frightening tales she had heard because she now knew what both men were capable of: cruelty, anger, madness. "What happened after Sir Erik arrived in the camp?"

The Persian sighed and looked towards the palace building as if he expected someone to be watching from a window. "I cannot say, princess. That is not my story to tell, and I am afraid Erik does not tell his past to anyone. But why are you so curious about Nikolsky?"

Christine looked away, feeling scared of the question. "Ever since I met Sir Erik in the library, Nikolsky has been following me. At first, I did not notice, but he became more overt, more sinister. I am sure that someone has been in my room, looking for something because my desk has been left in disarray several times."

Nadir frowned. This did not bode well with him; if Nikolsky was trying to use the princess as leverage, he had something terrible planned for Erik. Ten years of waiting for revenge was enough time for a man like the Russian to come up with a plan that was imaginative, wicked, and flexible. "Anything else? Has he approached you?"

"No, not directly. But, I received this morning." She dug a letter out of her dress pocket, and handed him the note. The lettering was crude, and Nadir was unable to read the message, as it was in Swedish, but the intent was perfectly clear by the drawing of a skull at the end of the note.

"Come with me," he extended a hand to the trembling woman and hurried towards the palace. It was time for Erik to become involved.

Author's Note: Again, I am terribly sorry for the delay...

Definitions

Tsyganie- Russian "gypsy"

Eralash-Russian card game similar to contract bridge; I edited the rules slightly, and I apologize for any inaccuracies

Blintz-Russian food served as an after meal dish or an appetizer


End file.
